


Nothing Stands Between Us Here (and I Won't Be Denied)

by VelvetDove



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Dark, Emotional Manipulation, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Not Beta Read, Older Man/Younger Man, Power Imbalance, Pre-Canon, Rape/Non-con Elements, Whump, it's just allusions to what's going on, there's no actual explicit sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:54:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27119848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelvetDove/pseuds/VelvetDove
Summary: Sebastian doesn’t understand what the nobleman is, or why he does what he does. The only thing he does understand, is that he's helpless to do anything to stop him.
Relationships: Sebastian LaCroix/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 17





	Nothing Stands Between Us Here (and I Won't Be Denied)

**Author's Note:**

> After reading a lot of stellar fics about Sebastian’s Embrace (either fics centered around it or fics with brief mentions/flashbacks/hints) I was inspired to throw my own into the mix. It’s a bit squicky, but, you know. Gotta have a couple of freaks in the fandom.
> 
> Seriously, though. Bless you all for your creativity and your wonderful fics. I’ve been in a rut with my ADHD addled brain unable to focus on anything, and this idea/prompt really held my attention and it’s one of the few projects I’ve actually been able to finish.
> 
> Sebastian and OC are speaking French, but I’ve written the dialogue in English - with the exception of a few things - for simplicity’s sake.
> 
> (Stupidly long title from Sarah McLachlan’s ‘Possession’)

Sebastian is not a crying man.

He is, however, a man who feels unease deep within his bones. It starts low in his back, a hum that slithers up his spine and makes his skin crawl before settling heavy in the pit of his stomach. He keeps his jaw locked tight, but his teeth do not grind or knock against each other - steeling, some may say, for an inevitable he knows will come. Tonight, his freedom is gone.

He pretends, of course, that he is only losing his freedom once. This is how he copes; each time, he tells himself it is the first time, and that it will not happen again. But to go by this reality is to unwittingly admit he’s lost his freedom repeatedly, like _last_ night, and the night three days prior, and the many nights that have overlapped and overlaid in memory and he will not admit that he cannot remember the night his freedom _truly_ was lost.

There are some nights when he is left to his own devices. It is these nights that he plots an escape he knows will not happen because the first and only time he tried, the nobleman’s rage was true and palpable (simmering beneath skin, boiling over, eyes flaring as his signet ring caught flesh in the metal and Sebastian could taste his own blood and skin between his teeth for weeks), and he will not face failure again. To face it only once leaves room to believe in the pretense of possibility.

It’s always the footsteps he hears first. Up the stairs, echoing across a cold marble hallway. The noble never speaks before he enters the room, before he sets his dark glistening eyes on Sebastian, but he’ll never forget the smooth voice that settles in his skin like venom

 _(Look at you, Sébastien_. _So handsome, you loathsome little creature. I’ll have you. I’ll_ make _you mine.)_

and he thinks that makes it worse. Because it’s all memories. It’s things that have happened.

They _shouldn’t_ have.

The keys rattle on the ring as his captor looks for the right one. Sebastian thinks he purposefully takes his time, sliding each one slowly and precisely so they clatter against one another, building the apprehension that makes bile roll up and stick in his throat.

A key slots, and the lock clicks.

The nobleman is tall and sleek and made of sharp edges. His eyes shimmer amber in a darkness too overwhelming for the candlelight to breach. Sebastian can see in the outlines of the man’s features, a delight that is foxlike and menacing and he’d like to shrink away, but Sebastian knows better than to back himself into the dark corners.

“She’s dead, _mon cher,_ ” he sighs, as if it’s the most wonderful news he could ever give.

Sebastian does step away, then - out of anger. His fingers curl into his palms and the growl building from the back of his throat is low and menacing and treacherous.

“Just tonight, too - in childbirth. But she’s left something behind for you. A darling little niece.” the nobleman bends down, a slight incline of his torso. His fingers rest on Sebastian’s chin, tilts his gaze up. “But, alas… no mother, no father, no uncle… how long do you think she’ll last, Sébastien?”

Sebastian draws in a breath and says nothing.

He thinks of Cyrille instead, on sunlit ivory beaches with long hair that gleamed like spun gold. How she’d smiled and hugged him, how she’d told him of the greatest husband she could ever have, how she’d beamed about the child not even a month old within her.

“If it’s a girl,” Cyrille had said,” I’ll name her Céleste, after our mother. If it’s a boy, I’ll name him Sébastien.”

(He thinks, too, of the promises he’d made her before the war. That he and her husband would both come back. That they’d be safe and whole and everything would be fine. That Cyrille and her child would be protected forever.)

Fingers slide down the curve of Sebastian’s neck, and the noble steps too close.

“ _Mon beau._ I asked you a question.”

“... she won’t last.” he fights to keep his gaze level with that of his captor.

“Very good. Do you know, I wonder, why that is?”

“Because no one will be there for her.”

“Almost,” he purrs. His breath is cold against Sebastian’s nape as his fingers slip beneath the hem of Sebastian’s pants, glide over his navel and up his muscled torso. “The others are dead, but you are alive. _You_ are the one that has failed her.”

The noble’s lips are on his skin, now, traveling up his neck, across his jaw, pressing to his mouth and Sebastian opens for him each time. He is desperate, he tells himself, for some kind of warmth in the coldness of this new existence. Because he will be punished if he does not comply.

(He does not want to admit that he likes the way the nobleman is always gentle after he’s said his share of mean words - it is so unfortunate and pitiful how Sebastian squirms and jolts when the nobleman takes him in his hand and pleasures him with tight, languid strokes of his wrist. He does not want to admit that it makes his fingers curl and grip around the edge of the bureau he’s been forced against.)

“They wouldn’t care for you, Sébastien. Not like I will. That is why I must… remind you. It is why you must be compliant.” the nobleman’s hand slips away, caresses over Sebastian’s thigh. Sebastian’s breath comes in stuttering bursts and he feels -

He doesn’t _want_ any of this -

A hand curling in his hair, a gaze he cannot look away from, words whispered from a cruel, upturned mouth:

“On your knees.”

And Sebastian sinks down, even though every instinct screams not to. Even though every fiber of his being wants nothing more than to rip this man apart, rend him limb from limb, drown the room in the red of him. 

But he must obey. 

“ _Je t’adore,_ ” the man whispers, weaving fingers into Sebastian’s hair, pulling him forward to put him to work.

He despises the pleasure that pools in his stomach, steady and wanting. He despises the inexplicable surge of affection that makes his heart hammer too fast. He despises the way he moans when the nobleman pushes past his mouth into his throat, tightening the grip in his hair. He despises the ache between his legs, the eagerness to please, the anticipation of being rewarded.

(It’s the poison weaving through his blood. This isn’t compliance, or love, or consent. He’s been poisoned and he’s not sure how, he’s not sure with what, but it runs through his veins and corrupts him. It seeks to kill him in different ways.)

What he despises most, though, in the moments on his knees, in the moments with his back pressing into the mattress, is one person. The one weak enough to allow his capture. The one unable to fight back, to save his dignity, for leaving him trapped in the jaws of a wolf.

The one Sebastian despises most, as the nobleman unravels in his mouth and throat, is himself.

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't sure whether to stick with 'Sebastian' or 'Sébastien' so you get both


End file.
